Virginia, To The End
by broken clavicle
Summary: There are zombies. Nothing ends well. -SkyeWard AU.


**disclaimer: **disclaimed.

**notes: **I just really needed to write this.

**summary: **There are zombies. Nothing ends well. -SkyeWard AU.

* * *

**And You Thought The Lions Were Bad**

The End had come in a whisper shout, a hoarse, half-screeched warning cut off before it was complete.

It had also been accompanied by shuffling, moaning, slobbering creatures that wandered the streets aimlessly, smelling of decomposing flesh and four week old Chinese food. Skye was fairly certain that they used to be alive, but she there was no way she could really know:

All sources of online information had been cut off completely by day four, just after reports had poured in on forums and news outlets that Hong Kong, Moscow, Tokyo, London, Paris and a good number of other cities had fallen to these shuffling creatures.

Well, zombies.

Not that FitzSimmons liked her calling them zombies because, according to them, there was no _reason_ for her to call them zombies. This was, of course, because there was no evidence that they were zombies; no studies, no researches, nothing.

It didn't help that a majority of the scientists had died by day twenty attempting to wrangle some of the creatures that greatly resembled zombies up. A majority of them had risen up a day or two after they had been bitten and gnawed upon like food, just as shuffle-y and slobbery as the ones that had taken them down.

That was how Skye had met FitzSimmons—they hadn't been attempting to wrangle any of the zombies up to run tests on them, but they had been hiding in a building just a few feet away from where the other scientists were being murdered.

Skye had happened upon it and had ducked into the same building to hide—she knew she didn't stand a chance against so many zombies, not by herself. Taking cover and staying quiet was her only option, and her van was a good six blocks away—she didn't have the time or the cover to make it there, not with so many zombies this close.

Once the zombies were gone, she had seen FitzSimmons unfold themselves from their hiding spot cautiously, looking toward where she had ducked behind a desk and back out toward the scientists bodies laid, motionless.

Skye had popped out from behind the desk only a few second later, once she had assessed that the two in front of her were living, breathing beings and did not, in fact, want to eat her brains.

That had been the start of Skye's first friendship post-Outbreak.

* * *

There were two times now to the survivors: pre Outbreak and post-Outbreak.

Skye liked to think of them as "the time _before_ everything went to Hell in a hand basket" and "the time _after_ everything went to Hell in a hand basket." It wasn't like it came as a big loss to her or anything—she still had her pride, she still had her van, and she still had a set of lungs in her chest that still drew in air, even if it _did_ taste like smoke and rubble and blood.

She also had two more friends than she had had pre Outbreak. In fact, she had only been in New York City for two days before the apocalypse had occurred, relocating there on a whim to be closer to the hacktivists she had contacted online.

Skye hadn't left anyone behind when she had left her home—she didn't know who her parents were, nor had she been in contact with any of the nuns at the orphanage since she had left it at the wonderful age of eighteen, when she was completely sure with what she was doing in life and it was going to be _great_.

And it had been great, to an extent. She was lonely, sure, but she had her computers, and she had internet access, and she had her van, and that was all she really needed.

Things probably would have turned out fantastically for her, if the apocalypse hadn't struck.

* * *

Skye ran quickly down the cluttered sidewalk, crowbar in one hand and a machete around her waist. She stayed to the shadows of the burned buildings like a wraith still clinging to the life that had once been there, cautious with her footsteps over old newspapers and overturned tables, and even more so as she skittered around cars that had found their way past the curb.

She had an empty pack slung over one shoulder, zippered shut, keys to her van shoved deep down into the pocket of her muddy, dusty, bloody jeans. They had been cut and patched and cut time and time again since the start of the Outbreak. Her boots were tarnished, covered in scuff marks and grime from a various of sources she didn't want to name.

Looking over her shoulder, Skye slipped into the convenience store, slinging the bag from her shoulder and into her hands, unzipping it. After a quick look over everything and deciding she was alone, she set her crow bar down on the linoleum floor, scooping up canned food and stuffing it into the pack.

Currency and courtesy had died when the human race had started being extinguished, like a flame doused in water. People had started acting like animals, relying on basic survival instinct.

Those who had insisted on keeping the old ways alive had died quickly and without mercy, bodies torn and gnawed upon, only to rise up days later as one of the beasts who had put them down. In the days after that, the zombies had become less of a threat if you were smart.

Other living beings posed more a threat now than any of the flesh craving, shuffling creatures. They were smarter, faster and they worked in groups much, much better than any of the zombies did. They were deadlier, too, with their guns and their knives.

Once she had filled the bag up with all of the canned food she could manage to carry, she scrabbled across the floor, lying low lest anyone pass by the broken window. She grabbed any packs of band aids and any ointment anyone else had grabbed, throwing them into the bag and zipping it up.

According to the inventory Simmons had done before Skye had gone out, they would be good on water and everything else for another three days. Since Skye was the only one who had any weapons, let alone knew how to use them, it had been unanimous that Skye be sent out on supply runs. She was faster than FitzSimmons, more street smart than they were.

Of course, if she died, they would follow shortly after.

Zipping up the bag and tossing it back over her shoulder, Skye stood, looking around before cautiously making her way back toward the front of the convenience store, head ducked, crow bar back in her hand.

Behind her, something shuffled.


End file.
